Crazy for Loving You: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(57)

But in a he could be one of my closest friends, if I knew how to be real friends with anyone other than these three, kind of way.

“Maybe you and Beck should wait a few years before kids,” Emily says to Luna, and we all erupt in giggles again.

“Oh! Oh, you guys! I have pictures. Do you want to see pictures?” I dive for my purse, my exhaustion forgotten as I remember the best part of parenting.

The baby smiles.

And Remy has the cutest baby smile.

I’m flashing photos on my phone when Lady Raquel returns with a round of pink drinks in margarita glasses. “Food coloring,” she whispers with a wink. “The name and the disguise make tequila in the morning more acceptable. Oooh! Baby! And who is that handsome hunk of a man?”

“I really need to see Jude holding a baby like that,” Cam sighs dreamily.

“Total ovary-melter,” Emily agrees. “When Derek plays with his nieces and nephews, I can barely stop myself from jumping his bones right there.”

“That’s how I feel about Beck and the dogs.” Luna’s smile is so sappy and sweet that she manages to outshine Cam and Emily together, which is an impressive feat.

It’s not often I feel lonely with my friends, but they all have their someones.

And I have a baby I barely feel competent with, a social worker coming soon to make sure he’s safe since the Rodericks are calling both me and West unfit parents, pressure from my grandmother because Remy is all she has left of Julienne—yes, she’s obnoxious, but she does care in her own way—and a very familiar tingling in my cooch and nips every time West knocks on my door with Remy for a handoff.

“West preps the diaper bag every morning,” I blurt. “And he leaves little notes about milestones and Remy’s mood and how many times he was up overnight on his nights, and I feel like I’m missing half of Remy’s life and I want to ask him if we can do more stuff together, but I don’t know how to be a normal person who has a guy as a friend.” I leave out the part about our agreement that he’s temporary.

“You don’t be friends with men who look like that. Not unless you’re getting benefits,” Lady Raquel says sagely.

All four of the romance authors are leaning toward us.

“Plot twist,” coffee lady whispers.

“Total blow job in waiting,” Blue Glasses says loudly.

Taco author nudges her. “Shh!”

“Thank god I’m not alone,” the unicorn says. “Lady Raquel! We need some of those pink drinks.”

“For inspiration,” the taco author agrees as she pulls out a laptop.

“Maybe you should try the blow job,” Luna tells me. “Could a blow job ever make anything worse?”

“It never has before.” We clink glasses.

And I remember that I’ve promised West I’ll quit hitting on him, and just how screwed both Remy and I will be if he decides we’re not worth it.

And what’s keeping him here?

Really?

A promise he made to a woman who didn’t deserve it.

I owe him what he’s asked for.

“How’s Derek coming with Julienne’s computer?” I whisper to Emily.

“They’ve been through every electronic device they could find at the house, and there’s no video evidence of Julienne and Rafe making their will. But they did find emails dated about six weeks ago with correspondence to their attorneys that clearly spelled out they wanted you and West Jaeger to be co-guardians. Hang in there. He’s digging deeper into the Rodericks’ past too. He’s confident they’ll find something useful for court.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey. Chin up. It’ll be okay.” She squeezes my hand. “We’ve seen each other through way worse than this. You and Remy are going to be just fine, very soon.”

I hope she’s right.

But for the first time in my life, I’m actually worried that I’m going to fail at something that matters.





Twenty-Five





West



Thursday night, I hit every red light and traffic jam and rude driver in Miami on my way back to Bluewater from a small job in Coral Gables, which I was late to since Daisy’s replacement house sitter for me found a leak in the bathroom sink of the beach house, and I had to fix that first thing this morning. The weather reports suggest a late-season tropical storm is forming in the Atlantic. And Becca is asking if she and the girls can come bring the baby a present this weekend, since diapers and formula don’t really count.

I weave through the picturesque Bluewater streets, trading waves with residents out for walks with their dogs or switching out the chalkboard signs outside their shops. Everything’s bright and colorful and happy here, but I’m so run down, I can’t appreciate it.

Despite how familiar all the faces have become, from the women Daisy calls the Wealthy Widows, to Frank the cussing parrot and Steve the three-legged alligator, to her best friends’ boyfriends and fiancé, this isn’t my world.

It’s Daisy’s, and I’m just trespassing temporarily until she’s overcome the legal challenges presented so she can keep Remy.

And getting more and more attached to the little guy every day.

He found his hands this week. Spent hours watching himself flex his fists, then more hours trying to grab a parrot hanging on the play mat someone sent as a gift.